


Water, like a Stone

by fandomlver



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Everyone gets some, Gen, Kink Meme, Psychological Torture, actual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a kinkmeme prompt. d'Artagnan's past rises up and threatens to swallow him whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water, like a Stone

d'Artagnan was pacing when Athos woke.

It didn’t surprise him. d'Artagnan had been pacing when he’d fallen asleep – _unconscious_ , some part of him whispered and was ignored. He’d been almost constantly in motion since they’d been captured. The henchmen they’d seen so far were inexplicably unwilling to touch d'Artagnan unless he interfered with them, so while Athos was currently chained to a wall, d'Artagnan was free to roam around the cell.

He cleared his throat a couple of times. “d'Artagnan.”

d'Artagnan whirled, dropping to his knees beside him. “Athos. Are you all right?” Athos reached for his head; d'Artagnan caught his wrist, stopping him. “It’s not bleeding any more, but don’t poke it.”

“The others?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Not here, we were separated. I don’t know where they are.” 

Athos squinted at him. “Are you hurt?”

d'Artagnan looked away. “They haven’t given us anything, I’m sorry. Nothing to drink.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve seen your idea of _fine_.”

d'Artagnan shifted slightly; the torch shone across his face, and Athos grimaced. “Look at me.”

The smudges on d'Artagnan’s jaw, smudges Athos had thought were dirt, were clearly bruises. Athos reached for his chin; d'Artagnan flinched, though he corrected himself at once and let Athos move him as he liked.

The bruises almost matched Athos’s hand spread. Someone had held d'Artagnan’s face tightly enough to bruise.

“I’m fine,” d'Artagnan insisted, but he wasn’t meeting Athos’s eyes.

Athos let him go, watching him pull back out of arms’ reach. “Why are you not restrained?”

“Where am I going to go? I don’t know where the others are. They aren’t worried about me fighting back.”

“Why not?” Athos insisted.

d'Artagnan looked towards the door suddenly, startling to his feet. “Athos, say nothing, do you understand? _Nothing_.”

“What…”

“ _Quiet_!” d'Artagnan hissed, backing up to the far wall.

The door opened – it didn’t unlock, Athos registered, it had only been closed – and a guard stepped in with a plate. Glancing around, he smirked at Athos before thrusting the plate at d'Artagnan. “Eat up quick.”

d'Artagnan took the plate, studied it for a moment, and went to step around the guard towards Athos. The guard caught his arm, blocking him. “Nope. You eat, or neither of you eat.” d'Artagnan, eyes on the ground, went to step around him again, and the guard tightened his grip. “You eat, or neither of you eat _and_ I get to play with him.”

Athos cleared his throat. d'Artagnan looked up warningly, but it didn’t stop him. “Eat, d'Artagnan.”

The guard grinned, delighted. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“He’s only just woken up,” d’Artagnan murmured.

The guard backhanded him without looking; d'Artagnan thumped into the wall, bracing himself against it. Incongruously, the plate in his hands didn’t tip.

Athos snarled, but he didn’t speak. Something was happening here that he didn’t understand.

“Eat,” the guard ordered d'Artagnan, who obeyed without looking up.

The guard waited to take the plate away when d'Artagnan was done. The Gascon stayed where he was until the door closed – still not locked, Athos noted – and then slid down the wall to huddle at the base.

Athos whistled sharply and d'Artagnan looked up, dry eyed. “I don’t know if he can hear you or not, now. Better not say anything.” Athos raised an eyebrow and d'Artagnan grimaced. “Any word that you say is some kind of pain delivered to the others. A strike, a whip, a cut with a dagger. Something painful but not deadly. And they’ll know why it’s happening.” Athos gestured to him, and he shrugged. “I am permitted to speak as much as I wish.”

The guard slammed back in. d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet; the guard grinned, approaching Athos. “That slave of yours is very mouthy. He just can’t seem to grasp the rules.” Athos tried to rise to his feet; the guard got there first, kicking him in the ribs. Athos gasped, folding up around the pain, trying desperately to suck in a breath.

“Stop!” d'Artagnan protested, but he didn’t actually try to stop him.

The guard kicked him twice more and then stepped back. “Very good, you didn’t shout. Took the other one a while to figure that out. Now, we’re going for a little walk. Behave yourself.” To d'Artagnan, he added, “Marc wants to see you. Let’s go.”

He freed the chain from the wall, but Athos’s hands were still chained together, and d'Artagnan didn’t seem like he’d be much help right now. Athos went where he was pointed.

They were led to a large room – a cellar, judging by the lack of windows – lit by torches. Aramis and Porthos were on one side, well guarded. Athos automatically went to join them, but his own guard hauled him back before he could get there. d'Artagnan halted uncertainly between them, glancing around.

“Athos.”

Athos turned to see a tall, well dressed man entering from another doorway. d'Artagnan hissed in a breath, going entirely still; Athos could see Aramis watching him in concern.

“Aramis,” the man continued. Aramis tipped his head without looking away from d'Artagnan. “And Porthos. How nice to meet you.” Stopping in front of d'Artagnan, he added, “Tell your friends who I am.”

d'Artagnan jerked. “Marc was my mother’s lover,” he said tonelessly. “My father was away fighting in the wars, and Marc lived with us for a while.” He turned to look at Athos, and Athos realised why Aramis was watching him so carefully; d'Artagnan looked ill, pale and shaky. “I was very young.”

Marc patted him on the cheek; d'Artagnan flinched violently, but he didn’t pull away. “Good,” he said politely. “But do you know who I am now?”

“I don’t know anything that happened after my father threw you out.”

Marc’s smile turned dangerous, and the pat turned into a slap that almost sent d'Artagnan to his knees. “Enjoyed that, didn’t you? I saw you watching him, smiling when he put me out.”

“I don’t remember,” d'Artagnan said, turning his head to spit out a mouthful of blood.

“Is that fair?” Marc asked rhetorically. “She was the one who chased me, you know. Got bored when your father was away so much. And I was watching after you, after she died. Your father should have thanked me.”

d'Artagnan didn’t answer, didn’t react in any way. Marc turned, sauntering towards Athos. “She was a good lay, though, your mother, I’ll give her that.”

d'Artagnan still wasn’t reacting. Athos caught Porthos’s gaze from across the room, wordlessly warning him to stay quiet.

Marc studied him for a moment before looking away. “This is your captain?”

“My leader,” d'Artagnan mumbled. “Captain Treville leads the regiment.”

“And them?” He gestured carelessly at Aramis and Porthos.

“His team.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, looking back at d'Artagnan. “His? Not yours?” Frowning mock-sympathetically, he added, “Do they not like you? They kept fighting when I threatened you, you know, they only stopped when I threatened him.”

Athos glanced at Aramis, who shook his head once. _Lie_.

d'Artagnan swallowed. “I’m – apprentice, I’m still an apprentice.” Athos frowned, but he didn’t argue, waiting to see what would happen here.

Marc wandered back towards him, grinning. “You think you can make it as a Musketeer?” d'Artagnan didn’t answer; Marc caught his chin, deliberately digging his fingers into the bruises. “It’s very rude,” he said quietly, “not to answer when someone asks you a question. Do you need a lesson?”

d'Artagnan’s eyes widened. “No; I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, Marc. I’ll answer. What did you ask me?”

Marc shook his head, pushing d'Artagnan away as he let go. “No, I think you were just rude. And I feel it’s my duty to teach you better manners. I’m sure your Musketeer friends will thank me for it.” Glancing at one of his men, he added, “The slave.”

A brief scuffle, and the men had separated Aramis and Porthos, holding Porthos steady. One of them bound his wrists in front of him; Porthos snarled, but Aramis’s guard was holding a dagger to his throat and Porthos didn’t move.

“Marc,” d'Artagnan said helplessly.

“Manners,” Marc snapped, as Porthos’s hands were hauled up above his head and tied off.

Porthos half-turned, catching d'Artagnan’s gaze. “Not your fault,” he said firmly.

“Oh dear, three strikes to Athos,” Marc said off handedly, and Athos’s guard immediately obeyed. By the time Athos could focus again – one blow had been to the head – one of the guards had produced a cane and another had cut Porthos’s shirt away, baring his back.

Athos found his footing, glanced apologetically at Aramis, and said loudly, “Not your fault.”

Aramis’s guard chose to slice three shallow cuts into his arm; Aramis ignored it totally, watching d'Artagnan, and as soon as the guard stepped away he said clearly, “Not your fault, d'Artagnan.”

“Marc, _please_ ,” d'Artagnan said.

This time the slap sent him sprawling. d'Artagnan dragged himself back to his knees and stopped there, head down.

“Do it,” Marc ordered without looking away from him. “Don’t forget the extra four.”

Marc’s men beat Porthos until he shouted out, and then they let him hang there. d'Artagnan knelt the whole time, eyes down, not reacting to anything Marc said – mostly taunts about how well the slave took the rod. Aramis had fought, briefly, in utter silence, until he was overwhelmed; Athos stayed quiet, watching intently.

Marc was completely confident d'Artagnan wasn’t going to fight back. He never came within reach of Aramis or Athos, but he wandered around d'Artagnan without care, without even looking at him. He wasn’t paying much attention to Porthos’s punishment, either. This was all about d'Artagnan, every bit of it.

Porthos hung for a time before blood loss and stress got to him. His head sank to his chest and his weight rested against his wrists. Athos looked across at Aramis, who shrugged helplessly.

d'Artagnan shifted. “Marc, let me help him.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“He’ll suffocate if you leave him like that.”

“What do I care about him?” Marc said absently.

“Marc, _please_.”

Marc dropped to hunker in front of him, watching him carefully. “Have you learned your lesson?” he asked, so patronizing that Athos had to clench his fists to keep from speaking up.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmured. “Ask what you will.”

Marc caught his chin again, raising his face. “Do you think,” he said slowly, “that you can make it as a Musketeer?”

“No,” d'Artagnan said immediately.

Marc studied him for a moment before sighing disappointedly. “You’re lying.”

“No!”

“Another lesson, I think. You just don’t remember anything I taught you, do you?”

“Marc, please, no…”

“Pick one.”

d'Artagnan stared at him, uncertain. Marc shook him gently. “Pick one of them. For your lesson.”

d'Artagnan mouthed ‘no’ but there was no strength behind it.

“Pick one, or we’ll do both.”

“Marc…”

“ _Now_ ,” Marc said harshly.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan blurted.

Marc eyed him. “Again. Louder, please.”

“Athos,” d'Artagnan repeated.

Athos shifted slightly, trying to catch his eye to reassure him, but he couldn’t; d'Artagnan wasn’t looking up. Across the room Aramis looked furious.

“Athos,” Marc said, standing. Almost absently, he dragged d'Artagnan to his feet and then let him go; d'Artagnan swayed where he stood, still doggedly not looking up. “You want me to hurt Athos.” d'Artagnan shuddered but didn’t look up; Marc smiled, crossing to stand in front of Aramis. “He must be very fond of you, to save you. What do you think? You may answer, just this one question. Just one sentence.”

“You’ll burn in hell,” Aramis said promptly. d'Artagnan flinched, arms wrapping around himself.

“Maybe,” Marc agreed calmly. “So, does he like you better or does he just hate Athos? One answer, please.”

“d'Artagnan, this is not your fault, none of it.”

“He doesn’t listen very well, does he?” Marc said in d'Artagnan’s direction.

“He doesn’t like you,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“No, I suppose he doesn’t,” Marc agreed. Turning, he crossed to Athos. “What about you? Does he hate you or love Aramis? Answer exactly that question please, nothing else.”

“He doesn’t hate me,” Athos said evenly.

“Really? Even though he’s just offered you up for injury?” Athos stared at him without answering, and Marc shook his head, sighing. “He must just like Aramis better than you, then.”

“Aramis is far more likeable than I.”

“He is kind of charming, isn’t he?” Marc agreed. “I like the way he glowered at my men. It amused me.”

“I’m so glad.”

“That’s enough talking, I’m tired of it now.” Marc went back to d'Artagnan, still standing exactly where he’d been left. “Are you certain, now? You want my men to hurt Athos?” d'Artagnan nodded, very slightly, and Marc smiled. “You don’t seem very sincere. Maybe we should take Aramis instead.”

“No! Marc…”

“Take Aramis,” Marc ordered over his shoulder, watching d'Artagnan.

“Marc,” d'Artagnan pleaded.

Marc caught his jerkin, pulling him close to say something Athos couldn’t hear. d'Artagnan slumped in his grip, eyes finding the floor again.

The guards dragged Aramis to a table, tied rope around his left wrist and jerked, pulling his arm out across the surface of it. Pressed against the table, Aramis couldn’t get any leverage to pull away.

Marc sauntered over; he was holding a _main gauche_ in his hands, and Athos recognised it as d'Artagnan’s with a jolt. “I do hope you won’t take this personally, Aramis,” he said genially. “I just can’t allow the boy to lie to me. You understand.”

Aramis spat at him. He didn’t hit him, didn’t have the angle, and Marc just smiled.

The _main gauche_ stabbed through Aramis’s palm and into the table.

Aramis didn’t scream. He didn’t make any noise. But Athos was close enough to see the colour drain out of his face, see the way he bit straight through his lip in his attempts to stay silent.

Marc grinned, turning back to d'Artagnan and leaving the blade where it was. “See? He’s learning his lessons. Why don’t you learn yours?” Crossing to stand in front of him, he lifted d'Artagnan’s chin with more gentleness than he’d shown yet. “You just have to learn. I promised your mother I’d teach you. Just learn.” 

d'Artagnan nodded, eyes down. “May I please help them?”

“You can help one of them. Or…” Marc produced another blade. “I feel bad that I changed your choice. You can take this, and cut Athos, and then you can help the other two.” d'Artagnan looked at him, and he continued “You don’t have to damage him badly. Just cut him. Enough to bleed. Then I’ll know you’re learning your lessons, and you can help your friends.”

d'Artagnan took the dagger.

He didn’t meet Athos’s eyes at any point; just walked over and gestured for him to roll up his shirt. Athos obliged, still trying to catch his eye, trying to somehow tell him that this was all right. d'Artagnan kept his head down, scored a cut along the outside of Athos’s arm, and displayed the blood to Marc. Marc grinned, waving him towards Aramis. “Get him whatever he needs, and take that blade away from him,” he told one of the flunkies.

d'Artagnan gave up the blade without protest, leaning over Aramis. After a moment he stepped away, looking at Porthos. “Take him down.”

Athos watched as d'Artagnan did his best for both of them. The flunkies gave him whatever he asked for in the way of supplies, but they didn’t help apart from that. d'Artagnan was a passable field medic, as they all were, but he wasn’t a good stitcher, and in the end he just washed and wrapped Aramis’s hand tightly. Porthos was more easily dealt with – the rods had raised welts, but no real cuts, so he only needed to be cleaned and wrapped.

That done, d'Artagnan stuttered to a halt. Without something that needed to be done, he didn’t seem to know what to do next. Eventually he sank down to sit beside Aramis, guiding him to lie down with his head on d'Artagnan’s leg, checking the bandage carefully, over and over.

He’d left his _main gauche_ on the table.

Athos wasn’t sure how much time passed. Porthos came round; d'Artagnan spoke quietly to him for a minute, and Porthos drifted back into uncomfortable sleep. d'Artagnan had demanded, and received, waterskins, but when he tried to bring one to Athos he was stopped and firmly redirected.

He hadn’t met Athos’s eyes since he’d hurt him.

Marc arrived back after a while, smiling when he looked at d'Artagnan. “Well. How are we doing?”

“Thank you for letting me help them,” d'Artagnan said immediately.

“Of course.” Marc crouched in front of him, watching him. “They don’t have to be hurt, you know. As long as you behave.”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“Good.” Marc patted his cheek gently. “Gentlemen, take Athos back to his cell. You can go with him, or with Porthos and Aramis.”

“Porthos and Aramis,” d'Artagnan said immediately. “Marc?”

“Yes.”

“Athos hasn’t – we didn’t get anything to eat. Or drink.”

“Didn’t you? Someone must have made a mistake. Well, you come with me, leave Porthos and Aramis to my men, and we’ll sort that out for you.”

d'Artagnan only hesitated a moment before carefully sliding out from between Aramis and Porthos. Porthos, only half aware, tried to stop him, but d'Artagnan avoided him easily, joining Marc without looking back at them. Marc’s fingers wrapped tightly around d'Artagnan’s arm, all but dragging him out of the room.

Athos’s guards returned him to his cell, chaining him to the wall and locking the door for good measure. He was left alone for some unmeasurable amount of time before the door unlocked again and d'Artagnan came in, balancing a plate and a cup.

“Don’t say anything,” he said tiredly. “And don’t rush. I don’t know when I can get anything else.”

He crouched in front of Athos, putting down the plate and cup, and then stayed there for a long moment. Eventually he drew in a breath. “Aramis and Porthos are both fine. We’ve been here not quite three days. Treville should get here soon. Eat; I have to take the plate and cup away when I go.” He stood, moving away to another wall and sinking down it to sit.

Athos studied him as he ate. He couldn’t see any wounds, but the way d'Artagnan was moving suggested injuries somewhere. He was clearly tired, and more than that he was worn down. Athos ached to talk to him, but with the other two already injured he didn’t dare. Marc would have no compunction hurting them further.

He ate everything and drank the slightly musty water. d'Artagnan looked up when he put down the cup, hauling himself to his feet. “I’ll try and keep him away from you,” he murmured. “Just keep quiet. That’s the only way you can help.”

Athos caught his wrist when he reached for the plate; d'Artagnan shuddered, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m all right,” he murmured. “He hasn’t hurt me.” Athos gentled his grip, and d'Artagnan smiled faintly, pulling loose. “It’s no fun if I can’t play, after all.”

Athos caught his arm again, jerking him down to one knee and leaning forward to speak directly into his ear. “If you can run, you run,” he said firmly, “Get yourself out of here.”

“He’ll never let me go,” d'Artagnan murmured. “And I can’t leave you to him.”

Athos caught his face, ignoring the flinch, locking eyes with him. “If you can run, you run,” he whispered. “You are not to blame for any of this.”

d'Artagnan jerked free, pushing to his feet, gathering up the plate and cup. “Just keep quiet, Athos. I’ll take care of everything else.”

The door locked behind him.

Another endless stretch of time passed. Athos dozed, on and off, forcing himself to get what rest he could. He heard the guards outside every so often, but none of them spoke or came near the door. No one came in.

His torch guttered out.

After that he couldn’t tell if he was awake or not for a long time. When the door finally opened he had no idea how much time had passed; it might have been hours or days. It felt like a day or more since he’d eaten.

Marc sauntered in, hunkering in front of him. “Don’t you look nice.”

“My men?” Athos demanded, wincing at how hoarse his voice was.

Marc shrugged carelessly. “Alive. My boy’s taking very good care of them.”

“He’s not yours.”

“Oh, you’re wrong there.”

Athos shook his head. “If you released us, you would see. Without his concern for us d'Artagnan would never submit to you this way.”

Marc smiled. “Well, you have your opinion, I have mine.”

“Did you kill his mother?”

He grinned delightedly. “Oh, I like you. No, I didn’t. She died of an illness.”

“I’m sure you were heartbroken.”

“I missed having her in my bed,” Marc said bluntly. “I’m many things, but I’m no pederast. Once she was gone I was on my own.” Grinning, he added, “Of course, he’s not a child any more.”

Athos didn’t answer, and Marc tilted his head curiously. “Not going to threaten me?”

“You’re already dead for what you’ve done so far,” Athos said evenly. “More threats won’t add anything, and I think no amount of threats will stop you.”

“Well, aren’t you clever.” Marc pushed to his feet, taking a couple of steps towards the door. “Do you need anything?”

“Nothing I would have d'Artagnan pay for.”

"Really? Let's test that. From now on, Aramis and Porthos get nothing unless you ask for it."

"I won't play your games."

"Everyone plays in the end," Marc said, and Athos couldn't read his tone.

Crossing to the door, Marc called the guard. "Move him in with the others." To Athos, he added, "As long as it's just the three of you, you may talk. Anyone comes in, including d'Artagnan, the silence rule is reinstated. Understand?" Athos only looked at him, completely ignoring the guard unchaining him from the wall, and Marc smiled. "Remember, anything they need, you ask for."

"That will be difficult to do without speaking."

Marc hit him. Athos's head bounced off the wall behind him and a wave of dizziness momentarily took him. He shook it off, looking back at Marc.

"Careful," Marc warned him softly. "I don't like you so well that I won't kill you if it pleases me."

"That will be rather less fun for you," Athos pointed out.

"Not once I convince my boy that it's his fault. Something he did, something he didn't do - it's easy when you know how he thinks. The things I made him do as a boy - things even you would turn away from him for."

"Hell is not deep enough for you," Athos said flatly.

"You're not the first to say it," Marc said brightly. "Let's go."

He led the way, all the way through the cellar and into another maze of corridors on the other side. Athos briefly considered jumping him; his hands were chained in front of him, he could probably choke him out. But then there'd be guards to deal with, and he didn't know where the others were or how to get out, and he was quite sure Marc would die before letting any of them go.

The others were housed in a more traditional cell; one wall was made entirely of bars, affording Athos a good look as the door was unlocked. Aramis was asleep, or at least lying down, curled awkwardly on one side. Porthos sat nearby, watching him, sitting with one shoulder propped against the wall to keep from leaning on his back. Both were chained loosely by the ankle to a ring on the floor.

d'Artagnan was on Aramis's other side, but more than two armlengths away, sitting with his knees drawn up and his head pillowed on his arms. Athos caught Porthos's eye and he shrugged helplessly.

Marc wandered over and nudged d'Artagnan firmly in the ribs with his boot. "Is this how you look after your friends?" he demanded as d'Artagnan startled awake. "If you're not going to help them, I won't let you in here any more."

"No," d'Artagnan blurted, scrubbing his face. "No, of course not, I'm awake. I'm sorry, Marc."

Marc scoffed, taking a step back. "Maybe you'll stay awake now. Anything you need to treat these two, Athos has to ask for. My men won't bring anything you ask for any more, not until I'm sure you're awake enough to know what you're asking for. Understand?"

"Athos doesn't..." d'Artagnan cut himself off as he saw Athos being chained up on Porthos's other side. "Yes, I understand," he said instead.

"Good." Marc went back to crouch in front of Athos. "You may speak to ask for things. Nothing apart from that. Yes?" Athos didn't react, and Marc grinned, looking at d'Artagnan. "I like this one."

Standing, he told the guards, "My boy doesn't come in here alone. Provide what Athos asks for, within reason. My boy's requests are invalid until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, sir," one of the guards agreed.

Marc grinned, pushing to his feet. "Well, I must run. You know where I am if you want me."

"Yes," d'Artagnan murmured, kneeling to look at Aramis's bandage.

Marc left. The guards locked the door, and one wandered away; the other leaned against the bars, watching openly.

d'Artagnan sat back on his heels, pushing hair wearily out of his face. "I'm sorry, Athos," he murmured, eyes on Aramis. "I thought I could keep him from you." Looking up, he added, "You'll have to play. He won't give in; he'll let them die if you don't."

Athos tilted his head towards Aramis; d'Artagnan looked down at him. “He’s starting a fever. He needs – I don’t know; I don’t know what to do for him. Do you need me to leave so you can talk to the guards?”

Athos nodded slowly. Mark hadn’t said that, but he’d probably use it as an excuse to punish _someone_ if Athos spoke in d'Artagnan’s company. d'Artagnan nodded, pushing to his feet; he swayed, and Porthos moved quickly to brace him.

d'Artagnan smiled vaguely, turning away. Waiting for the guard to unlock the door, he looked back at Athos. “I am sorry.”

Athos shook his head slightly. d'Artagnan looked away, slipping out past the guard and heading up the corridor towards the main room.

As soon as he was gone Athos called to the guard, ordering water and herbs and something to eat. The guard sloped off and Athos sighed, resting against the wall.

“What the hell is going on, Athos?” Porthos asked softly.

“Marc seems to think he has some right to d'Artagnan. As though he owned him. He’s –“ Athos shrugged helplessly. “Reinforcing it. What’s been happening here?”

“The guards ain’t touched him. I mean, shoves, pushes. Not hits, not properly, and nothing else.”

“They probably aren’t allowed to. What about Aramis, and you?”

“Boy’s right, Aramis’s taking a fever. Ain’t d'Artagnan’s fault, he’s done his best.”

“I’m not assigning blame. I only need to know what’s happened. You?”

Porthos shrugged, carefully. “I’m sore. I’ll live. I can crack some heads if we need to.”

“We may need to,” Athos murmured. “Marc is clever, and dangerous. He’s already threatened to kill me and make d'Artagnan believe it’s his fault.”

“Think he could?”

“I think that Marc shaped more of d'Artagnan’s beliefs than we realise.” He glanced up at footsteps outside. “Silence,” he murmured, and Porthos nodded, anger simmering in his eyes.

The guard pushed d'Artagnan back in; the boy was carrying an armload of supplies, and he knelt beside Aramis with them, getting to work straight away. For all his protests earlier, he seemed confident enough once he had the supplies, cleaning and rewrapping Aramis’s hand and making him take some herbs in water. When he was finished he glanced at Porthos, who turned as far as he could and lifted his shirt. Athos couldn’t see his back from here, and d'Artagnan didn’t react, just washed it and dried it very carefully.

Done with that, he looked at Athos. “How’s your arm? Do you want – would you let me look at it?”

Athos rolled up his sleeve, letting him look. d'Artagnan sighed, bringing over some of the supplies. “It’s infected,” he said, almost to himself. “I was sure I hadn’t cut deep enough.” To Athos, he added, “I’m sorry, this will hurt.”

It did hurt, and once it had begun to hurt it kept on hurting, even after d'Artagnan had carefully wrapped it and given him herbs for it. He brought Porthos and Athos food; he seemed unsure whether to wake Aramis, eventually opting to leave him sleeping for as long as he could.

Out of things to do again, he looked at Athos. “Do you want me to leave?”

Athos shook his head. He was desperate to talk to Porthos again, but he wasn’t willing to send d'Artagnan away to do it. Marc would certainly take advantage.

“All right,” d'Artagnan murmured, crossing to the wall and sliding down it to sit.

A guard materialised in the corridor, rattling the door. “Oi! You know you can’t sleep in there, you’re meant to be helping them!”

“Yes.” d'Artagnan struggled back to his feet. “No, I’m awake.” The guard glared, and d'Artagnan added “Thank you” automatically.

“Remember it. You don’t need another lesson, do you?”

“No,” d'Artagnan said quickly. “No, I don’t.”

He paced, after that, stopping every so often to check on Aramis. Porthos watched, and Athos could see him getting angrier and angrier as time passed. Athos himself tried his best to doze, ignoring the burn in his arm as best he could.

Porthos kicked him and he jerked awake, looking around. d'Artagnan was leaning against the wall, back turned to the room, head down. He was shaking, trembling so hard Athos was surprised he was still upright. 

Athos whistled softly and d'Artagnan shuddered, looking around. “What? Are you all right?” He pushed off the wall, coming to kneel beside Athos to examine his arm.

Under his breath, Athos murmured, “If you leave, can you sleep?”

“Probably not,” d'Artagnan said just as quietly. “Do you want me to go?”

“I want you to _sleep_.”

d'Artagnan pulled away, preparing another dose of the herbs for him. “It’s getting worse,” he said when Athos stared at him. “Your arm. I’m sorry.”

Athos gestured for the cup, and when d'Artagnan held it out he wrapped his hand around the boy’s, drawing him closer. “None of this is your fault,” he said quietly.

“I don’t –“ d'Artagnan cut himself off. “Drink up,” he said with a sigh, crossing to the door and calling to be let out.

Porthos sighed when the door closed behind him. “He’s killing himself.”

“Marc’s killing him,” Athos corrected him. 

“Same thing.” Porthos glanced at him. “Your arm?”

Athos looked down at it, making a fist and relaxing it. “It aches some.”

“Drink whatever that was he gave you.”

Athos did, making a face at the bitter taste. Porthos nodded in satisfaction, leaning back against the wall. Athos mimicked him, feeling himself drift off again.

He woke to noise and shouting from somewhere else in the complex. Porthos was on his feet, staring at the bars, and Aramis was coming groggily awake. Athos sat up, wincing at the burn in his arm. “What is it?” he called.

“Fighting,” Porthos said without turning around. Someone shouted their names and he answered loudly.

Dujon, one of the Musketeers, appeared outside the bars. “There you are,” he said cheerfully. Glancing at Aramis, he added, “Are you hurt?”

“We’re all a little worse for wear,” Athos agreed. “The keys should be there.”

“Yes.” Dujon pulled them off a hook, unlocking the door and moving to Porthos first.

“Have you found d'Artagnan?” Porthos demanded.

“Not yet.” Dujon freed him, turning to Athos.

“How long has it been?” Athos asked.

“You should have been back at the garrison four days ago.”

They’d been taken two days before they’d have reached home. Six days, more or less.

“Aramis, can you stand?” Athos asked, wincing as Dujon brushed against his arm without realising.

“Yes,” Aramis assured him. “I can even fight if I have to.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary, Treville about turned out the garrison,” Dujon told them. “I have Musketeers waiting up the corridor; I didn’t want to bring them down here until I knew if it was necessary.”

Athos nodded gratefully at his discretion, glancing at Porthos. “Stay with Aramis?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” he agreed.

Athos looked to Dujon, who waved another Musketeer to stay with them before looking at Athos. “Where d’you think your boy is?”

“ _d'Artagnan_ ,” Athos said, leaning heavily on the name, “could be anywhere.” Seeing Dujon’s bewilderment, he grimaced. “My apologies. Our – host – insists on calling him boy. _His_ boy, to be specific.”

“My apologies,” Dujon said easily. “The others are still looking, so we –“

Someone shouted from the main chamber and Athos headed in that direction without hesitating. Dujon was at his shoulder, and Aramis and Porthos were behind him somewhere.

Two of the Musketeers were just outside the chamber, keeping the others out; Athos pushed past without stopping. Treville was standing just inside, one hand resting on his sword hilt; a couple of Marc’s men lined the walls, and Marc himself was standing with d'Artagnan by the far door.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said firmly, stepping up to Treville’s shoulder. “Come here.”

d'Artagnan didn’t move. Marc smiled, patting his shoulder paternally. “Good boy.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said again, “this place is surrounded by Musketeers. Come away from him.”

“d'Artagnan,” Treville snapped, and he still didn’t move.

Athos narrowed his eyes, studying Marc. “Step away from him.”

“Oh, I’d like to,” Marc assured him, “but it’s quite impossible.”

Athos pulled Treville’s pistol from his belt, arming it in one quick move. “Away from him.”

“Can’t.” Marc took half a step to the side, revealing d'Artagnan’s _main gauche_ in his hand. The blade was pressed firmly to d'Artagnan’s side. 

Athos snarled, but Treville’s hand closed firmly around his arm, silencing him. “What do you hope to gain from this?” he asked evenly. “My men surround you. You can’t escape.”

“This isn’t about escaping,” Marc said in disgust.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about what’s _right_. You see, Captain…” He pressed back against d'Artagnan, hiding the blade and putting himself behind the Gascon, making sure no one could shoot at him. “I own this boy. His mother gave him to me when he was young. Now, his father got in my way for a time. But as someone has kindly taken care of that for me, it’s time for me to take what’s mine.”

“d'Artagnan is not _yours_ ,” Athos snarled.

“Oh?” Marc nudged d'Artagnan. “What do you think?”

d'Artagnan swallowed hard. “Captain?”

“Yes,” Treville said calmly, still holding Athos back.

“Take your men and leave.”

“d'Artagnan!” Athos surged against Treville’s grip.

d'Artagnan flinched. Marc smiled. “You think I’m letting them leave?”

“I’ll stay,” d'Artagnan murmured. “I’ll never try and leave. Just let them go. You didn’t really want them anyway.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos protested softly.

d'Artagnan looked up, anger flaring in his eyes. “I told you to keep quiet and I’d take care of things!”

“Did you?” Marc said, one eyebrow up. “How kind of you.”

“Captain Treville,” d'Artagnan said quietly, “take your men and leave.”

“We do not leave our own behind,” Treville said firmly.

“You’re really going to fight me for him?” Marc caught d'Artagnan’s chin, twisting his head painfully around to the side. “For a whelp of an apprentice?”

Athos shifted slightly. “d'Artagnan. Tell him who you are.”

d'Artagnan’s eyes flickered up, catching and locking with Athos’s. “I…”

“Tell him,” Athos said again.

“Yes, do tell,” Marc said, sounding bored.

“I..” d'Artagnan swallowed.

“Tell him your name.”

“My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony.”

“What does that prove?” Marc demanded. “I lived in Lupiac! I know where he grew up!”

Athos was still holding d'Artagnan’s gaze. “Tell him who you are.”

“My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony,” d'Artagnan repeated, sounding stronger. “My father was Alexandre d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. I was commissioned by the King of France himself into the Musketeers. And, Marc?”

“What?” Marc snapped, clearly angry now.

d'Artagnan twisted, dropping away from him, and Athos shot him clear through the shoulder. Marc howled, dropping like a stone.

d'Artagnan picked up the dropped _main gauche_ , kneeling over him. “I belong to no man,” he murmured. “Athos?” he added.

“Here,” Athos said, stepping around Treville to come up behind him.

d'Artagnan held the blade out behind himself; Athos gently closed his hand around it, taking it from him. “If you want him to reach Paris,” d'Artagnan said, voice completely flat, “it’s probably best if you keep me away from him.”

“I think we can manage that.” Athos touched d'Artagnan’s arm, ignoring the flinch. “Come with me.”

d'Artagnan obeyed, head down as he followed Athos past Treville. Dujon and a couple of others passed them both, going to take charge of Marc’s men. Athos ignored them, looking at d'Artagnan. “You know how to get out of here?”

d'Artagnan nodded. “That way,” he said, pointing to the door. “I’ll show you.”

“Good. Let’s get Aramis and Porthos.”

“Yes.”

They were waiting in the corridor; Athos shook his head quietly and neither spoke, only fell into step behind them. d'Artagnan didn’t react, trailing after Athos, speaking only to guide him through the maze of tunnels.

Porthos caught Athos’s arm as they came into sight of the door, holding him back. “Marc?” he demanded.

“He may live to reach Paris.” Glancing after d'Artagnan, who hadn’t stopped with them, he added, “d'Artagnan has asked to be kept apart from him.”

“I’d be asking for five minutes alone with him,” Porthos muttered.

“d'Artagnan wants him to reach Paris alive.” Glancing at Porthos, he added, “Do we need to keep you away from him, too?”

“No. d'Artagnan wants to see him hang, he’ll see him hang.”

“Good.”

d'Artagnan was waiting just outside, face turned up towards the sun. He looked down as they came out, gaze flitting over them. “Aramis, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Aramis assured him. “How are you?”

d'Artagnan glanced at Porthos. “How is he?”

“He’s doin’ all right,” Porthos told him. “Better’n he would be without your help.”

d'Artagnan closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t – what about you?” he corrected himself.

“Sore, but nothing worse.”

d'Artagnan nodded, looking to Athos, who offered, “My arm hurts a little, but I don’t believe there’s any serious damage.”

“When did you get hurt?” Aramis asked with a frown, reaching for his arm.

“Very shortly after you did. And I don’t think you’re in any state to look at it. It’s been taken care of.”

“By who?” Aramis demanded. Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, and Aramis winced. “Ah. My apologies, d'Artagnan, I’m sure you did a fine job.”

“I’m sure I did just as well with him as I did with you,” d'Artagnan agreed, so evenly it took Athos a moment to realise what he’d actually said.

“d'Artagnan…”

“Are we leaving?” d'Artagnan asked, turning and taking a few steps away. Glancing back at Aramis, he added “Do you need to wait?”

“No. I can travel.”

“The fever’s only mild,” Porthos agreed when d'Artagnan looked at him. “He’ll be fine.”

“Good,” d'Artagnan mumbled. “That’s good.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said carefully. “There are things we need to talk about.”

“I know,” d'Artagnan agreed. “But not here? Please.”

Athos glanced around, stepping back to the door to find Dujon waiting inside. “We’re heading to the nearest inn. Please tell Treville.”

“Of course. Do you need anything?”

“Privacy.”

Dujon nodded, leaning out to point. “Ride that way, there’s a small inn, they’ll be empty right now. I’ll make sure the rest of us go somewhere else, and I’ll have someone outside the inn in case you need them.”

“Thank you,” Athos said gratefully. Dujon nodded, turning to head back inside.

He took Porthos to help him get four horses. d'Artagnan mounted without complaint, following the others as they headed towards the inn. It was little more than twenty minutes away, but by the time they reached it he was pale and holding his side with one hand.

“Ribs?” Athos asked, coming to help him down.

d'Artagnan nodded, leaning against his horse until he found his balance. “I got kicked a couple of times. I didn’t think it was serious – you got kicked too.”

“Yes, but I’m not hurt,” Athos assured him. “Come on. Let Aramis look at them.”

d'Artagnan grimaced. “He’s not well –“

“He won’t rest until he does, you know that. Inside or outside?”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Of course you are,” Athos agreed flatly. “Inside or outside?”

d'Artagnan sighed. “Inside.”

“Good. Come on.”

The innkeeper gave them two rooms, brought the water and supplies Aramis asked for, and promised them that he wouldn’t allow anyone to disturb them. Aramis examined d'Artagnan’s ribs and pronounced them bruised but nothing more serious. Athos’s arm was washed and rewrapped, Porthos’s back examined – healing nicely – and then Aramis allowed Athos to examine his hand. d'Artagnan had done well at taking care of it, the low grade fever no real danger, and it was healing well. “You’re very lucky,” Athos told him. “This kind of injury can be serious. You’ll have to be very careful for a while.”

“Marc knows what he’s doing,” d'Artagnan said from where he was leaning against the window, looking out. “He’s very good at injuries that don’t last.”

“Luckily it’s not my dominant hand,” Aramis said into the sudden silence.

“Yes, lucky,” d'Artagnan murmured.

After a moment he sighed, turning on the spot without getting any closer to them. “Go on, then.”

“Go on then, what?” Athos asked.

“Ask me whatever you’re going to ask me.”

“Tell us about Marc,” Athos said quietly.

d'Artagnan shrugged. “My mother was unhappy when my father went to war. She took Marc as her lover.”

“You were how old?”

He considered. “Maybe four, when he arrived? Five? I don’t remember exactly. And my father returned home when I had just turned nine.”

“You spent five years under that man?” Porthos demanded.

“When did your mother die?” Athos added.

“Three, four months before my father returned home. Marc never allowed any word of my mother’s death to be sent to him; a neighbour intervened, he was concerned for me.” To Porthos, he added, “Yes.”

Athos studied him. “He said that your mother –“

“I know what he said,” d'Artagnan cut him off.

“Is it true?”

“How would I know? They didn’t tell me things like that.”

Aramis shifted; Athos glanced towards him. “Marc told Captain Treville that d'Artagnan’s mother gave him to Marc, that he was simply righting a wrong d'Artagnan’s father did in taking him away.”

“Rot,” Porthos said firmly.

“Is it? Thank you for telling me,” d'Artagnan muttered. Athos frowned. Sarcasm was entirely like d'Artagnan, but he usually used it against enemies, not against them.

“What about your mother?” Aramis asked. “Surely when she knew he was hurting you…”

“She joined in,” d'Artagnan said flatly. “She liked it when Marc taught me how to behave, the way he was doing with you. She never wanted to bear my father’s children at all. I’m tired, Athos. Can I sleep, please?”

“Sooner or later we’ll have to talk,” Athos warned him.

“You said you wanted me to sleep.”

“Yes. Very well, get some rest. Do you want to eat?”

“I ate,” d'Artagnan muttered, crossing to the bed and kicking off his boots. That was the extent of his preparations; he was asleep almost before he’d gotten his head on the pillow.

Athos sighed, looking at the others. “I don’t know what to do,” he said helplessly. “Forcing him to talk won’t help.”

“No, it won’t,” Aramis agreed. “Let him rest. Perhaps he’ll feel better tomorrow. He isn’t injured, at least; he seems to have come through this better than any of us.” Athos lifted his head to stare at Aramis, who flinched. “I’m sorry; that was truly thoughtless. I meant physically.”

“Come on,” Porthos said with a sigh. “Let’s get you to bed while you can still blame that fever for what you’re saying. Athos, we’re right next door, just shout if you need us.”

“I will,” Athos agreed, but he had no intention of doing it. They needed to rest if they were going to heal.

He didn’t plan to sleep himself, either, but he was more tired than he’d realised, and the sun was up when he opened his eyes. Sleeping in the chair hadn’t done him any favours, he thought ruefully as he stretched. 

d'Artagnan’s bed was empty.

Porthos was in his room; he glanced up when Athos pushed the door open. “They’re outside. d'Artagnan went out, early, ‘fore the sun even came up. Aramis went to see if he could talk him back in a few minutes ago.”

Athos crossed to the window, and Porthos pointed. The two men were sitting on a fence by the stables, talking quietly. “How is Aramis this morning?”

“Fever’s gone. More pain, I think.” Athos nodded, turning away from the window, and Porthos caught his arm. “Athos, don’t. If Aramis is getting through to him, let him get through. Don’t interrupt them.”

“I’m going to see about food,” Athos said mildly, disentangling himself and heading for the stairs.

He slipped outside, keeping the stables between him and the other two, moving as close to them as he could get. It took him a moment to find a spot where he could hear them without being seen, and it meant that he couldn’t see them at all, the stable wall was in the way.

“…don’t blame you,” Aramis was saying. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t need absolution, Aramis,” d'Artagnan said. He sounded tired, but not as weary as the night before. "Not from you, from Porthos, from Athos. Not at all."

“Then what is it you need? You must know we know there’s something. Let us help you.”

“Don’t,” d'Artagnan murmured, and Aramis shifted slightly, maybe pulling away.

There was silence for a while. Athos was familiar with this tactic of Aramis’s; he liked to let silences hang until whoever he was talking to became uncomfortable enough to volunteer information on their own.

d'Artagnan shifted after a couple of minutes. Athos was quietly impressed. Few people held out that long against Aramis.

“I know that you don’t blame me,” he said quietly. “I know Treville and the others won’t. Everyone will say that I did everything I could, that I couldn’t have done any more.”

“They’ll be right,” Aramis offered.

“That isn’t the problem.”

“Then what _is_ the problem? d'Artagnan, please.”

Athos could hear d'Artagnan take several deep breaths, even at this distance. “The problem,” he said slowly, “is that I didn’t feel guilty.”

Aramis was silent for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“You saw the injury on Athos’s arm.”

“Yes.”

“I did that to him. You were – you were hurt, and Porthos was unconscious. Marc said I could help one of you, or I could cut Athos and help both of you. I knew that Athos would offer himself, for you, if he’d been allowed, but I couldn’t make that choice for him – but I had to. There was nothing to do. I couldn’t deal with feeling guilty as well as trying to handle Marc. So I stopped feeling guilty, I cut Athos, and I helped you.”

“He would have offered himself,” Aramis agreed quietly.

“I know he would! But that doesn’t give me the right to decide for him! What kind of man cuts his friend, his brother, and feels no guilt over it?”

“The kind of man who knows his brother’s heart,” Aramis told him. “And you clearly feel guilty now.”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t serve with him now, Aramis.”

“You can. You don’t think he’ll let you leave, do you? Not for this.”

“Well, that’s another choice I’ll make for him, then. I’ll resign in front of the king himself if that’s what it takes.”

“You’re a stubborn fool, I don’t know why we love you so,” Aramis muttered.

“I don’t either. I’ve certainly done nothing to earn it these last days.”

“Do you think we don’t know you’ve been keeping us alive?”

“You are alive because Marc enjoyed the game. If he’d wanted you dead, there’s nothing I could have done to stop it.”

“Marc was not in the cell tending to us. We know that playing his game hurt you, far more deeply than we can see.”

“It hurt you more.”

“It hurt our bodies. It hurt your soul.”

d'Artagnan made a noise that might have been a sob, and Aramis soothed him gently. Athos leaned forward, very carefully, until he could see around the shielding wall. d'Artagnan was pressed against Aramis’s side, face buried in his shirt. Aramis had one arm wrapped around him and was clumsily petting his hair with his bandaged hand.

Athos waited until the storm of grief had passed and d'Artagnan was hiccupping rather than sobbing. He’d retrieved one of the water skins, and he came to offer it, leaning against the fence at d'Artagnan’s hip.

Aramis nudged d'Artagnan until he sat up, offering him the skin. “Sips,” he murmured. “And wash your face.” d'Artagnan obeyed, and Athos frowned. They were going to have to be careful of orders for a while, until d'Artagnan stopped obeying automatically.

He lowered the skin after a minute, looking at Athos. “If you’ve come to tell me you don’t blame me, don’t bother. I know you don’t. That isn’t what’s wrong.”

“I know what’s wrong,” Athos agreed mildly. “You think you’re broken inside, because you didn’t feel guilty. You think Marc was right, all that rubbish he’s been whispering in your ear all week. How you don’t deserve this, you aren’t good enough to be a Musketeer, we only let you stay because we pity you – am I close?”

“I _hurt_ you.”

“To help the others.”

“I understand the reasoning! I put a blade to your arm, I spilled your blood, and I’d do it again!”

“Good,” Athos said firmly. “I’ve commanded men, d'Artagnan, sent them to their deaths.”

“That is not the same thing, and you feel more guilt than anyone I know. You’re guilty over Thomas, and that wasn’t even…” He shut himself up abruptly, turning away to take another sip.

“Your hand held the blade,” Athos said gently. “But it was not your will behind it. I was there; I know what happened. Marc wounded me, not you. Never you.”

“I offered you to him,” d'Artagnan said softly. “Even before Aramis was injured.”

“I was glad you did,” Athos agreed. “We needed Aramis healthy more than we needed me.”

“I should have known he’d turn it back on me. He never once let me stand by a decision. I just – I didn’t remember, how to handle him. Not in time.”

“I remember that part,” Aramis said thoughtfully. “He told you to choose one or he’d hurt us both, yes?”

“Yes, that worked out very well for everyone,” d'Artagnan agreed bitterly.

“I’m guessing, but I imagine you were thinking that we needed Aramis’s skills?” Athos asked. d'Artagnan nodded, and Athos continued “Good. That is exactly what you should have thought. You have behaved at every moment exactly as a Musketeer should, d'Artagnan.” d'Artagnan shook his head, looking away; Athos caught his shoulder, easing him back around to look at him. “I’m glad you felt no guilt. I would prefer you felt no guilt now. You shouldn’t; nothing that happened was in your control. Marc would have hurt us anyway, because he enjoyed it. It doesn’t make you broken, or worthless, or whatever else Marc has been telling you.”

“My father wanted to kill him,” d'Artagnan murmured. “When he came home, and saw…I asked him not to. I _begged_ him not to. Everything, all of this, I could have avoided it.”

Aramis shifted. “Why did you save him?”

“I was nine years old, Aramis. I didn’t want to watch a man die. Even him.”

“Good,” Aramis murmured. “That’s good, d'Artagnan.”

“And…” d'Artagnan scrubbed his face. “It’s so complicated, in my head. Sometimes he was kind. I remember him being kind. I know that he was.”

“He was manipulating you,” Aramis told him. “Confusing you. That’s all it was.”

“I have to ask you something,” Athos said quietly. “I’m sorry, it’s personal.”

“More personal than this?” d'Artagnan asked, rubbing his face again.

Athos smiled tightly. “Marc told me he was not a pederast. He also took some pain to point out that you are not a child now. Did he…”

“ _No_ ,” d'Artagnan said firmly. “That isn’t – it’s not the game. He might have, eventually. But no. He didn’t.” Looking away, he added in a tone that told Athos he was quoting, "Anyone can own someone's body. Owning a soul is something special."

Athos had to look away, blinking, until he could focus again. "He said that - he seemed proud of being able to persuade you to do anything. He said he'd made you do things as a child...d'Artagnan, stop, I'm not trying to blame you. You were a child; if he forced you to hurt other people, we can add it to his crimes at his trial."

d'Artagnan hesitated; he'd twisted off the wall, but he wasn't trying to go anywhere. "He didn't make me hurt anyone."

Aramis was watching, eyes narrowed. "Did he make you hurt yourself?"

"Not – not how you're thinking, no. He's – I had to fast, sometimes, sit with a plate in front of me and not eat it. Or sit in the cellar for hours, even though the door was unlocked. Things like that. I didn't hurt anyone." He twisted away from the hand Aramis tried to put on his shoulder. "Once I killed some of the neighbour's chickens; that's the worst I ever did. And I worked for him to pay it back, after my father came home." Catching Aramis's look, he added, "The other choice was always much worse. It's the game, Aramis. Marc is a master."

"What was he threatening you with?" Aramis asked. d'Artagnan frowned. Aramis continued, "This time, he was threatening us. What was he using when you were young?"

d'Artagnan flinched, looking away. Athos frowned. "You don't have to."

"I do have to. But I'm never talking about it again. Not ever."

"You don't have to talk about it this time," Aramis said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry."

"I do have to," d'Artagnan repeated. "Because I'm guessing this is what he meant. And if – if I tell you – then he doesn't own it anymore." Looking at Athos, he added, "This doesn't go to the trial, though."

"As you wish."

He turned back to Aramis, visibly bracing himself. "He mostly used my sister."

"You have no sisters," Athos said without thinking, and then closed his eyes as he realised what that meant.

"I have no sisters," d'Artagnan agreed. "She was two years older than me. I don't know why Marc picked me over her, but she was always – like you, she was used to make me play. When I was seven years old, she got off the farm somehow and went for help. But she went to the local priest, and he only returned her home."

"I assume Marc didn't like that," Athos murmured, studiously not watching as d'Artagnan scrubbed his cheeks.

"He didn't," d'Artagnan agreed. "He said that someone had to be punished for it. But he was in a good mood, so he allowed us to choose which one would take the punishment. She made me promise not to interfere, and she offered herself. To protect me. I tried to make him change his mind, I knew he wouldn't hurt me as badly as her, but he just sent me away, locked me in. And when he let me out, he said she'd gone to stay with some friends and she wouldn't be back."

" _Requesicat in pace_. I'm sorry," Aramis said softly.

"There is no chance he did send her away?" Athos asked.

"No. At least, he never left the farm, and no one came."

“Would you truly have stayed with him?”

Aramis blinked. "What?"

"d'Artagnan attempted to persuade Marc that if he allowed us to walk out, d'Artagnan would stay with him willingly."

"Stubborn fool," Aramis said in wonder. "You would have stayed with him, knowing what he is? What he'd do to you?"

“To save you? Yes.”

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis said softly.

“He doesn’t want me dead. Never did. It's not fun if I'm dead. You, you’re only good to make me play the game. It’s better if you’re not there.”

“Porthos thought you might want five minutes alone with him,” Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan shook his head quickly. “You promised.”

“I did. You won't have to see him if you don't want to."

"It's not because – I don't know what I'd do, if I saw him." He swallowed hard, and Athos caught Aramis's eye. "I don't know what he might make me do."

"He can't make you do anything, ever again," Aramis said gently. 

"He's never had much trouble before. I don't remember ever fighting him."

"You were a small boy the first time," Athos said, deliberately casual. Treating these fears with any weight would only make them more real to d'Artagnan. "And these last few days you were concerned for us. A man like Marc uses threats and intimidation because he has no other weapons. If he cannot threaten you, he has no power."

"You've never been intimidated by him," d'Artagnan muttered.

Athos thought he wasn't meant to hear that, but ignoring it wouldn't do any good. "True," he agreed. "I've never suffered as you have. But I will help you, if you let me."

"Please," d'Artagnan said fervently.

"Anything you need."

"Right now, he needs to eat," Aramis said briskly. "And to go inside, please. It's cold out here, you're not doing your ribs any favours."

d'Artagnan blinked. "I'm sorry, you're both hurt..."

"It doesn't matter," Athos said firmly. "We're both healing."

d'Artagnan nodded, letting Aramis shepherd him inside. Porthos was waiting at the door; he led them to a table, chatting idly about nothing, settling opposite d'Artagnan to distract him while Aramis examined his ribs. Athos lingered in the door, watching them, seeing how much more relaxed d'Artagnan was with them already. This would take time, he had no doubts, but he also knew that d'Artagnan would not allow himself to be controlled by Marc a moment longer.

 _We're all healing,_ he thought with a smile, and went to join them.

**Author's Note:**

> The Prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> Slight AU to D'Arts childhood. Before his father, there was his mother. A women that never wanted a son of a secret ex-Musketeer(AU). Because of this, and without his father ever knowing, he was badly abused by her and whomever she was with. After her death, he was sent to live with his real father on his farm, where he finally started learning true happiness and what it means to be loved. Then his father was killed and he joined the Musketeers.


End file.
